


be still, my soul, be still

by afterthenovels



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, No Plot/Plotless, Oxford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterthenovels/pseuds/afterthenovels
Summary: The memories from his college years used to be tinged with regret and sadness, flowing thickly through his mind like molasses, refusing to be pushed away ever since he returned to this city. They resurfaced every single time the summer heat made the old stone walls of the city look more alive and vibrant.But perhaps he has moved on since then, or grown up. Or simply changed.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	be still, my soul, be still

**Author's Note:**

> Not much plot here, only Morse's thoughts and Oxford in the summer. This is basically just me flexing my writing muscles, playing around with words in a new fandom, and also working through my own longing for Oxford. I tried to give this introspection a point, but don't know how well I succeeded. :D
> 
> This is set during the later series, probably somewhere around series 5. I wrote the original draft a few years ago, hence the refence to the conversation between Morse and Strange in 5x01. The first sentence in this fic is by my darling-dear [Essi](http://crispyhush.tumblr.com), who gave it to me as a prompt way back when — thanks, babe! 
> 
> Title from a poem by A. E. Housman.

Oxford in the summer is scorching, the kind of heat that makes vapour rise from the asphalt and the air shimmer in waves of rippling mirages. Morse remembers days like these well from his time at Lonsdale — punting on the river with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, the sun bright in the sky; taking a newspaper to the park and filling the crossword with birdsong as his background music as opposed to the usual records; skipping class (only now and then, mind — he was a good student, before... well, _before_ ) just because the weather was so magnificent that not taking his girlfriend out for a lunch date seemed like a sacrilege and a betrayal of everything he knew and loved.

(The summer sun always turns the Bodleian and the surrounding colleges bright and golden, eternal, in a way — like the buildings are older than they actually are, have stood on these street corners since the start of time and will stand there even after everything else around them has collapsed into ruins. Morse liked it, back then, and he still likes it; he likes the old souls cities like Oxford have.)

The memories from his college years used to be tinged with regret and sadness, flowing thickly through his mind like molasses, refusing to be pushed away ever since he returned to this city. They resurfaced every single time the summer heat made the old stone walls of the city look more alive and vibrant.

But perhaps he has moved on since then, or grown up. Or simply changed.

He has just finished up following an enquiry that didn’t lead anywhere, so he stops by the river to take a breath before he has to return to the police station’s stale air and endless paperwork. He knows work is waiting, the case is waiting, Thursday and Strange and Mr. Bright are waiting, but something about the day and the rhythm of his thoughts makes him want to stop, the hectic tempo slowing down for a moment.

He shrugs off his jacket, rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and wipes the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand. Thursday never removes his own jacket during office hours, no matter how warm the weather is or where he’s going, and Morse doesn’t know whether to find it impressive or worrying — if it’s a sign of stubbornness, of old habits sticking too hard, or of old age starting to creep in and make his guv’nor feel cold even when the thermometer is nowhere near one-digit degrees.

(Thursday is getting older, that much is true. It’s one of those things Morse notices but doesn’t like to think about too hard. Or at least he tries not to.)

There are punters on the river, young students with their innocent and worriless smiles. Morse settles down in the grass, crossing his arms behind the back of his head and breathing out slowly. The sunlight leaves red and orange patterns behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes, and he can hear the students on the river laughing, loud and high. Another memory surfaces in his mind, same river but different punters, and Morse can almost feel the weight of the pole in his hands, the push and pull of the water.

Oxford in the summer is scorching mirages, but for him it’s not a mirage of the faraway past anymore, a game in heartache and failure. Not completely, at least. There are new memories associated with the city now, new pains, new aches, dulling down the old ones, and sometimes — _sometimes_ — the oldest remains inside of him are so distant that he can even let go of them for a moment or two. This is one of those moments: his mind is still whirring with the details of the case, trying to make connections where there seem to be none, but the warm summer weather is also making him feel soft around the edges, like a photograph with blurred corners and a sharp centre.

Strange’s “ _You were young once_ ” comment suddenly springs to his mind, along with his own affronted reply back then, the milk bottle cold in his hand and the confused emotions of bumping into Miss Thursday after everything that happened weighing on his shoulders — “ _I’m still young!_ ” —, and Jim Strange may be many things, but he is decidedly not good at hiding his own amusement and disbelief. _You, young? Don’t joke, matey._

Morse opens his eyes, blinking them against the bright sky. The punters have moved too far away for him to see them, but he can still hear their voices, quieter now from a distance. Perhaps he is not young anymore. Perhaps he never was young, not in the way most people seem to be, carefree and easy with their minds, stilling their thoughts when they need to and moving on with such ease. Taking things in stride, easy come, easy go, whereas he was always a bit too serious, a bit too honest. He has always been difficult. His mind never stills, and moving on has always taken him a long time. Too long, sometimes.

(What was it Alexander Reece called him when he came back to Oxford as a detective? “ _Too bloody decent by half._ ”)

A cloud moves past the sun, and for a second or two the world stays still — the dreaming spires, the punters on the river, the trees and the flowers, the distant noises from High Street. Except Morse is still moving, his own breathing loud in his ears, his thoughts skipping from one thing to another. Moments like these, summer days when the city is hazy and peaceful and his mind is behaving itself… They do make him feel _younger_ , though. Compared to this city, he’s practically a child.

Morse can feel the corner of his mouth quirk up in amusement. He lets it. The current case circles back to the forefront of his brain, his own memories drifting away, and the world starts moving again.

It never stops for long, and when it’s moving, it does so almost in time with his mind.


End file.
